Lilies of the Valley
by SweetSinger2010
Summary: Her throat caught on a sob as fresh, hot tears spilled over. Time held absolutely still. She had come to realize, at long last, that she was in love with Gilbert Blythe. And now he was dying! Anne ran desparately out of the house. She had to tell him.
1. Chapter 1: Not Gilbert

Author's Note: Thank goodness that my Twilight infatuation is over! I've now returned to my first and most enduring literary love, Anne of Green Gables. Here's my first ever "Anne" fic with our favorite Miss Shirley and Mr. Blythe. Enjoy, but do so with the knowledge that I own nothing of Anne of Green Gables. It belongs rightfully to L.M. Montgomery. Note that in the first section of this chapter, I have underlined passages which are taken directly from Anne of the Island, Chapter 40, entitled "A Book of Revelation." Everything else is just my embellishment of a classic.

_Lilies of the Valley_

_Chapter 1—Not Gilbert_

Even at the age of twenty-two, Anne Shirley, Bachelor of Arts, was not yet grown up enough to _fully_ realize that visions and ideals are fickle things too often and too easily shattered. Indeed, after three carefree weeks spent with her friends at Echo Lodge, she did not realize—_could_ not realize—how quickly life, and one's perspective of it, can change.

Despite a stormy evening, kitchen chatter at Green Gables was merry until Davy heedlessly remarked,

"Say, Anne, did you know that Gilbert Blythe is dying?"

For one long, horrible moment, Anne thought that she was going to laugh a humorless, hysterical laugh. Gilbert dying? The idea! But something in the air, something in the faces of Marilla and Mrs. Lynde, and something in the quickening of her own heart squelched the impulse.

Neither laughter nor words hailed from her lips. Anne stood quite silent and motionless, looking at Davy. Her face had gone so white that Marilla thought she was going to faint.

"Davy, hold your tongue," said Mrs. Rachel angrily. "Anne, don't look like that—_don't look like that!_ We didn't mean to tell you so suddenly."

"Is—it—true?" Asked Anne in a voice that was not hers. 

"Gilbert is very ill, Mrs. Lynde said gravely. "He took down with typhoid fever just after you left for Echo Lodge. Did you never hear of it?"

"No," said that unknown voice.

"It was a very bad case form the start. The doctor said he'd been terribly run down. They've a trained nurse and everything's been done. _Don't_ look like that, Anne. While there's life there's hope."

Anne stared blankly.

_Hope?_

Her heart now stood still. Her hands were cold. Mrs. Lynde was talking about hope while _Gilbert_ was dying?

"Mr. Harrison was here this evening and he said they have no hope of him," reiterated Davy.

Marilla, looking old and worn and tired, got up and marched Davy grimly out of the kitchen.

"Oh, don't look so , dear." Said Mrs. Rachel, putting her kind old arms about the pallid girl. "I haven't given up hope, indeed I haven't. He's got the Blythe constitution in his favor, that's what.."

Anne gently put Mrs. Lynde's arms away from her, walked blindly across the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs to her old room. At its window she knelt down, staring out unseeingly.

Her mind was tumultuous. Gilbert was—_dying?_ No, no that was impossible! Again, a nearly irresistible urge to laugh swept over Anne. But nothing broke her aggrieved silence save the low rumble of thunder and the rakish shriek of wind around the house as the storm intensified. Rain poured from the sky as a thousand thoughts and memories assailed Anne's mind.

She remembered Gilbert Blythe the schoolboy, who was, according to Diana Barry, "_aw'fuly_ handsome."

Gilbert, who had the audacity to wink at a strange girl. Gilbert, who apologized for teasing Anne—and after _she_ had smashed a slate over _his_ head! Gilbert, who slipped a pink candy heart under her elbow as a peace offering. Gilbert, who rivaled her fiercely for years in school. Gilbert, who saved her life on Barry's Pond. Gilbert, who gave up Avonlea School for Anne's sake. Gilbert, who had waited patiently for friendship. Gilbert, who practically confessed his love for Anne that long ago evening in Hester Gray's garden.

No, Gilbert wasn't dying! Not the Gilbert who led the freshman class at Redmond. Not the Gilbert who captained the football team. Not the Gilbert who accompanied Anne to all the college functions those first two years. Not the Gilbert who called faithfully first at St. John's and then at Patty's Place. Not the Gilbert who gave her a pink enamel pendant for Christmas. Not the Gilbert who sent Anne beautiful lilies-of-the-valley on the day of their convocation.

No! Not _that_ Gilbert.

Anne straightened up and smeared tears form her pale cheeks defiantly. Maybe somewhere tonight, a mere boy named Gilbert was—was dying. But…surely not…Gilbert _Blythe_. _Anne's_ Gilbert wasn't dying.

Was he?

Anne wracked her mind to remember Mrs. Lynde's earlier words. She'd said that Gillbert had been terribly run down. Indeed, Anne remembered Marilla asking when Anne had first returned for the summer, _What_ had Gilbert Blythe done to himself at college?

Anne remembered Gilbert at convocation. What she most remembered was the flash and fire of his usually gentle hazel eyes when he saw that she wore his flowers instead of Roy Gardner's. But now, in retrospect, she saw how thin and pale and tired he had looked even then.

And hadn't she seen him a month ago, just before she left for Echo Lodge? Now it hit her. Amidst all the gaiety of the A.V.I.S. hosted part, had she _really_ failed to notice how—_ill_ he'd seemed?

A sharp, sudden knock at the kitchen door startled Anne from her troubled ruminations. She rose from her place by the window and crept to the upstairs landing, where she would be out of sight, but well within earshot.

"James Harrison!" Mrs. Lynde's voice sounded in surprise. "You are _dripping_ wet!"

"Thanks for noticing, Rachel," he retorted sourly. There was a pause before he said gravely, "I've come to tell you that Mr. Blythe's gone in hot haste for the Carmody doctor. Gilbert's got worse."

Marilla gasped softly. "I'll go tell Anne." Her voice was wooden.

But Anne didn't need to be told.

Her throat caught on a sob as fresh, hot tears spilled over. Time held absolutely still.

She had come to realize, at long last, that she was in love with Gilbert Blythe; that she had always been in love with him. That was why her face burned scarlet every time Redmond gossip had paired his name with Christine Stuart's; why her heart had ached over the loss of their cherished friendship; why she had worn his lilies-of-the-valley at convocation; why she had not been able to marry Roy Gardner

Anne trembled with this revelation. Everything had suddenly become so clear. And then a memory swept over her, unbidden, of that horrible day two years ago when she had so foolishly refused Gilbert's proposal.

_"Forgive me Gilbert,"_ she'd pleaded feebly. She blanched, remembering the way her stomach heaved when he had released her hand. How ashen his face had looked! How haunted his eyes!

_"There isn't anything to forgive,"_ he'd said in a strange, stiff voice, _"There have been times when I thought you did care. I've deceived myself, that's all. Good-bye, Anne."_

_Good-bye, Anne._

The wretched words echoed hollowly in her ears until she thought was going to go insane. With a choked sob, Anne turned and fled into her room. She tripped over her desk chair in the darkness and it clattered to the floor. Anne fell in front of her trunk, still packed from her jaunt to Echo Lodge, and savagely fished for her heaviest shawl. She flung it around her shoulders and ran downstairs, barreling straight in to Mr. Harrison as she was about to dash out the kitchen door. He managed to grip her forearm before she could take another step.

"Whoa, missie!" He cried. "Where do you think you're going?"

She turned sharply to an astonished Marilla.

"Please," Anne's voice was a tormented whisper. "He _can't_ die without knowing how I care."

Marilla opened her mouth to protest, but found herself nodding consent instead. She understood the frenzied pain in Anne's eyes.

Anne wrenched free of Mr. Harrison's grasp and disappeared swiftly, in the blinding rain, down the road.


	2. Chapter 2: Mrs Blythe

Author's Note: Thanks for the hits and reviews! I'm sure you're well aware that an author loves to know that her work is appreciated.  Again, I must disclaim any and all rights to Anne, as she is the creation of L.M. Montgomery. Enjoy chapter 2!

_Lilies of the Valley_

_Chapter 2—Mrs. Blythe_

Mrs. John Blythe lowered herself wearily into a chair at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of tea between her work-worn hands. As of late, though—ever since Gilbert became ill—Mrs. Blythe felt that her hands had been maddeningly idle. Especially now that the nurse had been hired, Mrs. Blythe found herself at loose ends. Yes, she kept up with her daily chores, but even the most mundane tasks made her anxious. She simply couldn't bear to be away from her precious boy in this, his darkest hour.

Mrs. Blythe was regarded by all of Avonlea as a very friendly, very merry, kind, light-hearted woman. But just now, all twinkle and tinge of mirth was absent from her still-lovely hazel eyes. Perhaps she was not the most intelligent of all women, but a woman she was, and a mother first and foremost.

From the earliest days of her existence, Mrs. Blythe had wanted a home and a loving family to call her own. There was never a bride more radiant than she on the day she married John, nor a young mother more joyfully expectant of the day of the coming of her firstborn.

Mrs. Blythe sighed. Gilbert was born on a day much like this one; stormy and abysmal. She'd nearly given her life ushering his into the world, and the doctor said that there would be no more babies. Mrs. Blythe was crushed, but she loved her son with incredible fervor. She watched him proudly as he grew and flourished, and she and her husband strove to provide everything for him that they could. And Gilbert, smart and determined, worked twice as hard as any young man ever had to provide for himself.

Mrs. Blythe was proud of Gilbert's achievements and ambitions, but there was one ambition in particular which she wished that he'd never chased. Because this, the only pursuit in which Gilbert had ever failed, was killing him faster than the fever; it _had_ been killing him for the last two years, as far as Mrs. Blythe was concerned. Ever since Anne Shirley—well, Gilbert just hadn't been the same. Maybe the difference wasn't discernible by everyone, but it certainly was by Mrs. Blythe. Her heart broke for her boy, but there as nothing that she could do for him.

And now he was quite probably dying. His fever was raging nearly out of control, his breathing was heavy and labored, and he thrashed and murmured deliriously. How many times today had Anne Shirley's name crossed his lips? Mrs. Blythe knew he boy was grievously ill because of this; Gilbert had scarcely mentioned the red-headed miss for two years, unwilling to expose his feelings of deepest hurt.

Mrs. Blythe sighed, leaving her troubled thoughts. It was time for her to return to where she most belonged; by her son's side. The nurse said earlier that the turn would come tonight, or—or—

Mrs. Blythe wiped away an escapist tear and rose to set her still-full mug by the sink. Just before she turned to go to Gilbert's room, she glanced out the window and saw something moving through the torrential rain. She squinted to make the figure out. It was a person; some foolish farm hand trying to make his way home for supper, no doubt. Poor chap, Mrs. Blythe thought. He'd probably catch his death of pneumonia, if he didn't catch his death of a whipping first. Mrs. Blythe continued to watch as the lad drew nearer, and then stared in horror when it became apparent that _he_ was a _she!_

"_What_ in the _world?_"

Mrs. Blythe wondered aloud. The luckless dame continued to approach. Mrs. Blythe gasped sharply. A sudden, violent gust of wind pushed the rain away _just_ long enough to provide a clearer glimpse of the girl. Then she disappeared around the house. Mrs. Blythe was dumbfounded.

Why—it couldn't be—_was_ it—?

Hurried footsteps sounded on the veranda. Mrs. Blythe flung open the kitchen door.

"Anne _Shir_ley!" She cried in shock, using much the same tone that Mrs. Lynde had when Marilla allowed Anne to take flight. For the first time in a very long time, Mrs. Blythe was left entirely speechless. Here stood Anne Shirley, a college girl, soaked to the bone without even an umbrella to protect her. And she was certainly in a state. Her thin blouse clung to her skin, her skirt sagged with the weight of the water in it. Her hair had come down and it now swirled in a curly, bright, riotous mass around her waist and shoulders. Droplets of water shone through it like glass beads. And her eyes…

Mrs. Blythe shuddered inwardly when she looked into Anne's eyes. Bigger and grayer and more luminous than they had ever been, they held a deep, unfathomable expression.

"Mrs. Blythe," Anne gasped and stammered breathlessly, "I just came home from Echo Lodge—Davy told me about Gilbert, and Marilla and Mrs. Lynde said—oh!—and then Mr. Harrison said that he's gotten worse and—"

Anne stopped for breath and realized that she hadn't formed any complete sentences. So much, she thought absently, for her college degree.

"Please, Mrs. Blythe," she asked anxiously, "How is he?"

"Gil is bad off," Mrs. Blythe responded slowly, "but, he'll pull through yet."

A semblance of a smile touched the corners of her mouth as she finished speaking. For the first time in nearly a week, she honestly believed that her boy would be okay.

Anne sagged against the doorframe in relief. Mrs. Blythe was alarmed. The poor girl looked like she'd just shed twenty years!"

"Thank you," she whispered through pale, quivering lips. "Thank you."

Anne turned then and took a step to leave. An enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Gilbert was going to be alright. His mother said so.

"Anne!" Cried Mrs. Blythe in bewilderment. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Why," poor Anne answered confusedly, "I'm going home."

"In this weather!" Scoffed the older woman. "Anne Shirley, don't be ridiculous."

"It isn't right for me to intrude, Mrs. Blythe," she faltered, flushing. Her good sense was returning. "I'm afraid I shouldn't have come, but I—"

Anne stopped, unable to put into the words the reason for her coming. Mrs. Blythe wrapped a kind arm around Anne's waist and led her inside.

"Nonsense," she chided gently. "Come in and sit by the stove. It's a pretty cold evening for July, and you're soaked through and through. Why, Anne Shirley, you're shivering!"

She was. Anne was shaking from head to foot, partially because of the cold, and partially because she was overwrought by emotion. Mrs. Blythe took her to the kitchen stove and pulled up a chair.

"You stay here," she instructed sternly. "I'll not have _two_ sick children in this house."

Within moments, Anne had a hot cup of tea in her hands, a thick quilt around her shoulders, and a new outlook on life. Her relief over Gilbert's condition was tangible.

Mrs. Blythe watched in approval as the color returned to Anne's face. As soon as she'd seen the girl running down the lane, she'd regretted her cold treatment of Anne the last two years. Certainly, Anne had been a fool to refuse Gilbert's proposal, but it was clear now that she cared a great deal for him after all.

But what of Anne's college beau? Gilbert had mentioned him once or twice, a trifle bitterly. Mrs. Blythe panicked. If Anne was engaged to that fellow—Gilbert would not take the news well.

But Mrs. Blythe remembered the look in Anne's eyes as she inquired after Gilbert.

"You're not going with that Redmond man, are you, Anne?" It was a statement rather than a question. Anne flushed scarlet in humiliation.

"No, ma'm," she murmured. "I—I turned him down."

"I see," was Mrs. Blythe's simple reply.

The two women sat in silence for some time. Anne began to warm up, and after a while, she felt that she was dry enough to venture back out into the storm. Nightfall was quickly approaching.

"You can't go back out in that!" Mrs. Blythe protested when Anne stood to leave. "When John comes back with the doctor, I'll drive you home. Surely, your folks won't expect you to walk back in the rain."

"I really have no right to impose, Mrs. Blythe," Anne said lamely, mentally calculating the distance to Diana's house. But what Mrs. Blythe said next rooted Anne to the floor.

"Please stay, Anne." The older woman's voice was unusually soft. She squeezed her hand, looking deep into her eyes. Anne was startled by the sudden, gentle entreaty in her address. "Gilbert needs you."

Anne's heart thundered in her chest. Gilbert needed _her_? She stood rigidly, not knowing what to say. A wave of near happiness washed over her.

Was it possible that Gilbert still loved her?

"I—" But Anne's throat closed.

"Would you like to see him?" Mrs. Blythe asked gently.

Anne's eyes lit up, sparkling with tears.

"May I?" She whispered eagerly. Mrs. Blythe put her arm around Anne's shoulders and led her to Gilbert's room.

Anne stood in the doorway, unconscious of the trained nurse who looked volumes of disapproval in her direction, unconscious of Mrs. Blythe's secret smile as she watched Anne take a step toward Gilbert. Anne took notice only of the still, white form on the bed. She heard the door shut softly behind her. She and Gilbert were alone now.

She went and knelt by his side.

"Oh, Gil," she whispered, fighting tears. "I'm so terribly sorry. I wish I'd gotten here sooner."

A/N: This concludes chapter 2. If you like what you read, and would like to read more, drop a review. I'd like at least two or three more before I post chapter 3. Yes, I _will_ hold out on you.


	3. Chapter 3: Anne?

Author's Note: Thanks to all who reviewed! You were very gracious. As promised, I'm now continuing with chapter 3. The perspective—Gilbert's--is one that I've not really written from before, so let me know what you think. As always, I own nothing.

_Lilies of the Valley_

_Chapter 3—"Anne?"_

For the first time in several hours—or was it several days?—Gilbert was resting quietly. Almost. His body was finally too weary to answer to his mind's delusions. His fever was so high. Somewhere subconsciously, Gilbert knew that his condition was very, very serious. The fever would have to break soon, or he'd die. Normal, practical Gilbert knew that this was true, and he didn't balk at it.

But then, the fevered, delirious Gilbert was torn; on one hand, not wanting to leave the earth and the wonderful things in it, and on the other hand wishing that he'd started dying much, much sooner.

Anne was in his delusions now. Before, Gilbert had only dreamed _of_ her, and now she was _here_. Or, at least, he _thought_ she was here. Practical Gilbert knew that this was impossible; therefore, he knew he _must_ be dying. But if this was the end, then he didn't mind at all.

Because of the way the Blythe home was built, everything that went on in the kitchen could be heard with crystal clarity in Gilberts' room. After twenty-five years, he was well able to identify each and every sound. That was what caused this, his sweetest hallucination, to seem so real.

The kitchen door had opened suddenly. Gilbert thought nothing of it until he heard his mother exclaim,

"Anne _Shir_ley!"

Anne? Anne was here? Gilbert didn't believe it until he heard her voice—and then he believed it even less than he had before. Still, he couldn't help but wonder why she'd come, even if it was _his_ hallucination. Dream-Anne was winded and frantic sounding and she spoke so quickly and incoherently that Gilbert couldn't understand a word of what she said.

But there was something in Anne's voice that he had never heard before. Was it…fear?

Yes, yes, it was. Terror, even. Gilbert tensed. Was there something wrong at Green Gables? Was Anne in trouble? Suppose she had come to beg his help—and he was powerless to do anything for her!

But then he heard Anne in a wretched whisper, sounding close to tears when she said:

"Please, Mrs. Blythe, how is he?"

With tremendous effort, Gilbert opened his eyes, hoping that in doing so, this hallucination would end. This really _was_ going too far. Anne coming all the way from Green Gables to ask about _him_? Not bloody likely!

His eyes closed again, and he began to doze off. His mother's voice was the next to intrude on his dreams.

"Why, Anne Shirley," she cried, aghast. "You're shivering!"

_Shivering? _Gilbert thought confusedly. Why should Anne be cold? Gilbert felt like he was being boiled alive, and it was July besides.

A loud peal of thunder rattled the windowpane. Oh! Gilbert understood now. It was raining.

Wait…_wait._

It was _raining_! And Anne—if indeed Anne was really here—had come here _on foot_ from Green Gables? She'd catch her death of pneumonia! He could see her now; pale and gaunt, struggling for breath, sicker than he was himself.

With strength that he didn't know he possessed, Gilbert pushed himself up on his elbow. He _had_ to make sure that Anne was alright. He needed to see the healthy glow on her cheeks and the fire in her eyes. He had to see her, had to make sure she was dry and warm and…and…

The nurse looked up, and in the next instant, she'd crossed the room and was fussing at Gilbert. Again.

"No," he said thickly as the nurse tried to push him back down. "You don't understand. I have to—"

"Have to nothing," the nurse scolded, frowning as she felt Gilbert's forehead. Her lips formed a thin, taut line. "Hush, now. You need rest."

Rest! Gilbert thought scornfully. He needed anything _but_ rest. He'd been lying here long enough. But he fell back on his pillow and closed his eyes. He was _so_ sick of watching the room spin.

He began to dream again. Anne was still there. If only he could die now, with her voice the last thing he heard in life, he'd surely be happy.

His mother asked Anne something about Redmond, but Gilbert was too tired to listen. He fell asleep, finally, thinking about Anne at a dance, wearing that beautiful rosebud dress, and flowers in her hair…

The fever burned hotter.

--

Timidly, Anne reached for Gilbert's hand. She'd been watching him for half an hour, during which time he'd never moved. Anne had begun to fear for his life all over again. She felt his forehead. It was _hot_. Tiny beads of sweat matted the hair on his forehead and temples. She swept it aside gently.

Anne heard the door open.

"What can I do?" She asked quietly. Her eyes never left Gilbert's face.

--

The end was very near, Gilbert knew. He could feel it. The fever was taking over, taking control. And if he did live, would his kin ever feel normal again? It was so hot, so sensitive. Would everything he touched from now on melt or turn to ash? He wondered idly. Then he felt something…something cool and smooth and pleasant in his hand. But he could not grasp it, even though he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to!

His body would not respond. His ears would not hear, his eyes would not see. Blast it all! If the fever took his hearing and sight, did Gilbert _want_ to live?

He felt something cool again, this time on his forehead. It felt like water. Yes, it _was_ water. Someone was sponging him down. He felt the coolness on his head, neck, chest, arms. He gloried in it.

But he did not recognize the feel of the hands that did the blessed work. The touch was definitely different than that of the nurse's. Hers was skilled, calculated. No, this was not the nurse. In fact, the hands were no less tender than his mother's, but _this_ was a different kind of tenderness entirely.

Gilbert forced his eyes to open. He _had_ to see this stranger.

The light was murky and dim, and everything shimmered around the edges. He was able to make out the form of a woman standing with her back to him, wringing out a cloth over the basin on his dresser. Gilbert was right. This was _not_ his mother or the nurse. The figure was too slender and willowy, the movements too graceful.

Gilbert stared uncomprehendingly. Maybe, _maybe_ he hadn't been hallucinating after all.

"Anne?" He willed the sweet name to rise from his parched throat.

She whirled around, eyes wide. Immediately, she was at his side, smoothing his hair, holding his hand. Oh, how beautiful she was.

"I'm here," she whispered strangely. "I'm here."

He managed to squeeze her fingers. He even conjured up the ghost of a half-smile. But it faded quickly when he saw the wetness on her pale cheeks. He saw that tears were welling up in her eyes, spilling over. He reached up to wipe them away. She held his hand there, turning her face into it. A single sob escaped.

"Oh, Gil, I—" But he touched his fingers to her lips.

"Shh," he soothed in a whisper. "Don't cry, Anne."

A moment of silent communication passed between them. She leaned over to kiss his brow.

"You need to rest now," she said as she withdrew slowly. She knew that he was fighting to keep his eyes open. She squeezed his hand.

Gilbert fell asleep, and Anne stood watchfully for some time before turning to leave the room. Mr. Blythe had just returned with the doctor.

"Anne."

She heard the whisper just as she reached the door. She returned to Gilbert, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Don't go," he whispered feebly. "Don't go."

She kissed him again in response. Then his hand went limp in hers.

The last thing that Gilbert felt before he succumbed to dark sleep was the wetness of tears on his face.

He couldn't figure out whether the tears were his or Anne's.

A/N: There! I've finished chapter 3, making it as sad and pathetic as I possibly could. I also tried to stay true to Gilbert's character. Let me know it you think I succeeded a little bit. (I even tried my hand at proofreading!) As we learned in kindergarten, the number 4 follows the number 3, and so shall chapter 4 follow chapter 3 soon. But what happens next? I'd love to hear your ideas!

----SweetSinger2010


	4. Chapter 4: Then She Knew

Author's Note: Whew! It's been a while since I updated, huh? Well, I've been a little busy, and on top of that, I've had horrible writer's block. However, I think I've sorted it out. This chapter is frightfully short, I'm afraid; it's a filler more than anything. And thanks for all the hits and reviews! Don't feel bashful about keeping up your brilliant work. And remember, I don't own anything of Anne.

_Lilies of the Valley_

_Chapter 4—Then She Knew_

It was after eleven o'clock when Anne returned to Green Gables that night. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde stayed up waiting for her in the kitchen. Anne said very little except that she would be returning to the Blythe homestead before daybreak. She volunteered no information about Gilbert, and neither of the old ladies dared to ask anything.

Mrs. Lynde shook her head gravely. "Well, Marilla," she sighed when she heard Anne's bedroom door close, "if Gilbert Blythe dies tonight, Anne will die too, in spirit. It'll haunt her the rest of her life, that's what."

"Stuff and nonsense," Marilla quipped, trying to sound scornful and failing miserably. Through pale lips she said weakly, "They'll _both_ be fine."

But upstairs, Anne felt anything _but_ fine. When she left the Blythes, Gilbert's condition had been worsening. She hadn't wanted to leave him. But Mrs. Blythe, alarmed by the younger girl's paleness of cheeks and darkness under the eyes, insisted upon taking her home, promising Anne that she could return after she'd slept a while.

Anne didn't argue, but neither did she sleep. She was too numb and exhausted, too worried. Her mind would not quiet. All that she could think about was Gilbert. She lay awake for hours, hoping that she would be able to see again the unmistakable warmth in the depths of his eyes, to hear his jaunty laugh; wondering whether the universe was now conspiring against her to make her pay for her youthful folly.

Anne laughed bitterly, remembering a tidbit she'd written for the old Story club years ago; a story with tragic circumstances very similar to the ones that faced her now. Back then, she considered such a thing to be enormously romantic. Now, there was no romance at all. Only heartbreak.

And she couldn't stand it.

Finally, after hours of staring at the ceiling, Anne rose from her bed, changing clothes and splashing her face with cold water before silently leaving the house.

It was two o'clock in the morning.

--

Anne was only partially inside the Blythe home before she realized that something was terribly wrong.

Dr. Spencer passed her as he stepped through the door on his way out. His face was drawn and grave. His eyes met hers for an instant—and then Anne knew.

She made her way blindly to Gilbert's room and stood in the doorway.

Gilbert's face was white. His chest no longer heaved for air. He appeared to be resting comfortably; he looked peaceful. He looked just the way Matthew had when—

Anne shuddered. Without asking any questions, without looking into Mr. Blythe's haggard face, without hearing Mrs. Blythe's broken sobs, Anne knew.

Gilbert was dead.

A/N: Ah! I bet you didn't expect me to throw you through _that_ loop! Listen, I'm going on vacation and I'll be back in a week. Hopefully I'll be able to complete this story, and I'll upload after I return. In the meantime, I expect to get **OODLES** of reviews expressing your shock, outrage, and tear shed. Honestly! With giggles and winks,

----Sweet Singer2010


	5. Chapter 5: Breaking Dawn

Author's Note: Here it is! (Finally!!) I apologize for the ridiculous wait. In my defense, though, I've been viciously busy, but even worse than that, I had horrible writer's block. This is the _fourth_ version of this chapter, and it's the only one that even remotely made me happy. Originally, it was twice as long, but I decided to divide it. I apologize for the brevity, but I wanted the last chapter to stand on its own. (It will follow swiftly, on my honor!) Anyway, I enjoyed reading all of your reviews! I never anticipated such a response! Well, "don't get your knickers in a knot!" Just read and see what happens. Enjoyyyy…. (Oh, and by the way, I don't own anything.)

_Lilies of Valley_

_Chapter 5—Breaking Dawn_

Anne jerked awake violently, stifling a shriek. But as her heart slammed against her ribs, she couldn't stifle her hysteric sobs and gasping breaths. She sat bolt upright, pushing her hair from her face. Her eyes flitted wildly back and forth, but there was nothing to be seen in the pitch-dark room. She twisted her hands anxiously in the folds of her skirt, trying to quell the panic that was rapidly rising in her throat.

Her head turned sharply at the sound of a creaking door. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, and she could _just_ make out the inky form that slowly came in. Weight shifted on the bed; someone sat down, slipped a warm, comforting arm around her shoulders.

"Anne," a familiar voice whispered gently. Anne let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding and sank into a much-needed embrace.

"Marilla," she said brokenly, "I had a horrible nightmare."

"There, there, child," the older woman began comfortingly. She smoothed Anne's hair.

"It was so _real!_" Anne remonstrated, crying. "I dreamed that I went back to the Blythes'—this very morning!—and when I walked in, I could see in Mrs. Blythe's eyes that Gilbert—that he—he—"

Anne choked on the last few words of her sentence. Marilla hugged her close, rocking gently. "It was just a dream," she spoke around an odd lump in her throat. Anne shook her head.

"Marilla," she said lowly, after a long silence, "I'm afraid… What if he _does_…and not knowing how I care!"

Anne took a few jerky breaths, trying to fight against another onslaught of emotion. Marilla put her hands on her shoulders, turning her around. Even in the darkness, Marilla could see that Anne's eyes were luminous with tears.

"Anne Shirley," she said gently, lifting the girl's chin, "if Gilbert saw in your eyes tonight what I see now..." Her voice trailed off. "He'd have to be a fool not to know that you love him."

In a rare show of open affection, Marilla reached out to stroke Anne's white cheek. She withdrew slowly, after a long moment.

"Go, now," she said brusquely. "Providence is giving you a second chance, and you'd better take it, Anne."

Impulsively, Anne threw her arms around the woman's neck.

"Thank you, Marilla," she whispered tearfully.

"Mind you take a thick sweater. It's damp tonight." Marilla replied irrelevantly, but not unemotionally.

She left the room quietly as Anne began to prepare for her departure. The anxious girl hurriedly changed clothes and doused her face and neck with cold water, erasing the salty tracks of her tears.

She shivered when she stepped outside; she heard the clock chime four. But as the full moon broke through the clouds and illuminated the path before her, she walked with her head held high.

--

Anne's heart did not quake in fear when she passed a tired-looking Dr. Spencer over the doorstep of the Blythe home. Past him, she saw Mrs. Blythe, who seemed to have aged a decade over the preceding hours, sitting at the kitchen table with an expression of joy and relief on her face.

"Anne!" Mrs. Blythe gasped, jumping up and running to embrace her. "Oh, Anne! You've come just in time."

"What's happened?" She asked weakly. Suppose—suppose—

"The fever's broke," the exultant mother beamed. "About two hours ago. Gil's awake now, asking for you."

A near-hysteric laugh escaped Anne's lips. She felt dizzy as she walked to Gilbert's room and knelt beside his bed once more. She looked into his eyes; they were clear.

"You left," he murmured accusingly. She smiled warmly, sweeping stray curls from his cool forehead.

"I came back, Mr. Blythe."

"Thank you." He whispered softly, his eyes sliding slowly shut. He took care to memorize the soft love light glowing in Anne's eyes, lest he never see it again. Still ill, he was wary of trusting his senses; what if they were playing him false?

But when he woke again hours later, Anne was still kneeling at his side, their fingers entwined. She was asleep. Her head resting on her arm, Gilbert could see her delicate features smoothed peacefully in slumber. He didn't' dare to wake her; she looked so tired. But he couldn't quite resist the urge he felt to reach out and stroke her velvety cheek. His fingers thrilled on her smooth skin.

Her eyes fluttered open. Gilbert didn't withdraw his hand.

"I didn't mean to wake you, Anne." His voice held a note of teasing. "I wanted to see if you'd like to take one of our old-time rambles through the woods."

Anne laughed, sitting up.

"Another time, perhaps. For now, would you settle for some breakfast instead?"

"A glass of water," he assented. Anne rose stiffly, but she smiled. Their eyes met and they gazed at each other a long moment before she finally turned and left the room.

Gilbert lay back and stared out the window. Bright morning light flooded in. His body was still weak, but his mind was well recovered. He laughed to himself; yesterday, he'd been ready to die, and today, he found himself thinking that maybe, _maybe_, the elusive Anne Shirley would be his after all. He wondered idly how long it would be before Dr. Spencer—and his own mother—would allow him out of the house to visit Green Gables.


	6. Chapter 6: New Love

Author's Note: Well, here it is! It's not stunning, but it's a conclusion. Thank you all so much for your feedback! I'm glad that you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. (And thanks for bearing with me in my tardiness!) One last time, I must say that I own nothing of the wonderful red-headed miss. She is L.M. Montgomery's creation.

_Lilies of the Valley_

_Chapter 6—New Love_

"Ah!" Gilbert's voice came suddenly as he appeared around the porch, startling Anne from the book in her lap. "You've got your color back. It's good to see you out; I was worried that you'd have to spend this fine evening indoors."

"No," Anne laughed merrily. "Marilla has graciously allowed me out of the house."

"Do you think she'd 'graciously allow' you to take a walk with me to Hester Gray's garden?"

Anne nodded, standing. "Of course. Just let me go and get my sweater. She _won't_ let me take a walk without it."

Sweater acquired, the two young people set off down the lane, laughing and chattering as if they were no more than schoolchildren. Anne felt a little twinge of pain over this. She and Gilbert's "comradeship" of old had returned in full force since his illness, but she no longer found it satisfying.

"That was a pretty vicious cold you had, Anne," Gilbert was saying bemusedly. Anne had to jerk her mind back to the conversation. Gilbert continued. "How _did_ you manage to fall in Barry's Pond?"

Anne flushed scarlet and laughed.

"I took the twins out for a row. They were in one dory and I in another. Well, my hat blew off in a gust of wind and was floating on the water in front of me. I leaned over to get it, stretching just as far as I could. I had it, too, the wretched thing—until I toppled in the pond head over heels, just like Josie Pye at that Sunday School picnic years ago."

By the end of the story, Anne's expression had become so comical that Gilbert had to choke back a laugh.

"Sounds even better than the _Lily Maid_," he teased.

Anne wrinkled her nose. "I feel sure that Tennyson's _Elaine_ never sneezed like I did the three days afterward. Ugh." She waved a hand in exasperation. "It _was_ horrid. At least when we girls chose to act out _The Lady of Shallot_, it wasn't _my_ fault that I fell in the pond. There _is_ _**some**_ dignity in _sinking _with a boat, but there _isn't_ any in falling out of it."

"You're right; especially when there aren't any dashing young men about to perform heroic rescues." Gilbert said wickedly. Anne threw him a pained look, but laughed in spite of herself. They continued on down the lane in companionable silence.

Now and again, Gilbert glanced sideways at Anne. She looked especially beautiful tonight, he thought. The setting sun shone warmly on her glossy auburn hair, bringing out hidden rich tints of gold. She wore a pale green dress which accentuated her creamy white complexion, and her slender curves. She was starry-eyed, and her full lips were turned up at the corners, as if smiling secretly.

Anne _was_ smiling secretly, amused by the recollection of the _Lily Maid_ incident, and her consequent "heroic" rescue. She could remember perfectly the scarlet humiliation that flooded her face when she'd looked up from her precarious perch under the bridge and seen Gilbert Blythe rowing toward her as calmly as if they were in a perfectly normal situation. She remembered the look of laughter in his eyes, and the amusement in his voice. He was unfailingly chivalrous, even though she was abominably rude. They had been children then, and it seemed to have happened just yesterday.

Stealing a glance at Gilbert, Anne realized with a little sigh that they were children no longer. Certainly he wasn't. He looked every bit of a man now, tall and slender, a little paleness from the typhoid fever still lingering. His eyes held an expression of keen intelligence that was apparent to even the most casual observer; Anne was far from being a casual observer. When she peered into the hazel depths, she saw enduring strength and patience; qualities that she knew he'd developed in the tumultuous years he'd spent waiting for her affection.

Anne and Gilbert were in Hester Gray's garden now, sitting together on the little stone bench. A breeze sang through the trees, filling their silence.

"What are you thinking of, Anne?" Gilbert inquired softly after a while. She shifted her position, propping an elbow on her knee, chin in hand.

"You," she murmured. Gilbert's eyebrows rose in surprise at the honesty and simplicity of her answer.

"A subject so dull?" He tried keeping his voice light.

"I rarely waste my time by thinking of dull things," she returned tartly, immediately irritated by his self-depreciation. It was her fault, she knew, that he joked in such a way.

"Gil, I—"

"Anne," he interrupted suddenly. He gazed intently into her eyes. "I need to know. Why did you come to me that night?"

She instantly knew what he was referring to, and she shuddered. No response.

"I'd been sick for weeks, Anne," he prodded her. "Why did you choose then to come? Why did you come at all?" He spoke passionately, truly longing for an answer. Another tremor passed over Anne's frame and she spoke in a rush.

"I was at Echo Lodge when you fell ill, and I never heard about it until I came home. I'd no sooner set foot in the house than Davy told me that you were dying."

Gilbert's expression softened in understanding. Anne grasped his hand.

"Gil," she said chokingly, "I never wanted you to think that I didn't care. I—I—you can't imagine what I felt. I thought that I was too late—"

"Too late?" Gilbert queried, interrupting again. Anne bit her lip, fearing that she'd said too much. Then she caught his eyes. Her heart quickened.

"Yes," she continued unsteadily, "I was terrified that you would… die without knowing that—that I love you. That I… always _have_ loved you; even when I was too blind to see it."

Gilbert, stunned, said nothing. He didn't know what _to_ say. He'd been dreaming of this moment for what seemed like a lifetime, never thinking that it would become a reality.

Poor Anne was terrified by his silence, thinking that she _was_ too late after all. She stood abruptly and turned to leave. Suddenly, she remembered something about a Christine Stuart. Redmond gossip was still far-reaching. If Gil and Christine were engaged…well, Anne didn't blame him.

"I'm sorry, Gilbert," she stammered, gasping. She walked blindly toward the gate, wondering vaguely if this was how he had felt when she'd thwarted his proposal in the orchard at Patty's Place.

"Anne Shirley!" Gil cried from behind. He suddenly understood that she'd misinterpreted his lack of response. He took a few long strides and grabbed her wrist, spinning her around. He wiped away the two tears that gushed from her eyes and held her face between his hands.

"I am _not_ going to watch you walk away from me yet again." He spoke in a deep tone that made a pleasant shiver run up Anne's spine.

"What, then?" She asked breathlessly. Gilbert's eyes held an unfathomable expression.

He dared to slip an arm around her waist, drawing her very, very close. His gaze fell on her full, pink lips, and he bent down and gently claimed them with his own. Anne melted into his embrace as she found herself returning the kiss. It was soft and tender and sweet, full of love and hinting at passion. They parted slowly.

"Anne," Gilbert spoke softly, at length, "I asked you two years ago to be my wife. If I ask you again today, will you give me a different answer?"

Anne smiled and lifted her sparkling eyes to his. There was no need for words. Gilbert led her back to the bench, and he planted a kiss in her hair when she laid her head on his shoulder. She was finally his.

A deep contentment settled over the garden with the final blaze of sunset. Tomorrow Anne and Gilbert would talk about things felt and seen, and things misunderstood. They would face the three years of separation that lay before them; he would go to medical school in Kingsport and she would take the position of principal at Summerside High School. They would tell their friends and family of their happy engagement.

But tonight, they would talk of things far more sacred.

The pale moon rising illuminated the woods as the two young lovers made their way home hand in hand. Shimmering stars began to pepper the changing sky. Anne enumerated them as the hopes and dreams of coming years, and in hushed whispers, she and Gilbert wove together an unbreakable silvery web of love and eternity.


End file.
